


Sirens

by petrovasfire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrovasfire/pseuds/petrovasfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Lydia, not Agent McCall, who saves Stiles from the assassin in the school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens

He feels the cold metal of the gun pressed against his forehead, and he prepares for his end as quickly as he can. He conjures up images of his father; the still vivid memories of his mother; Scott.

When the uncanny voice—already fading fast—reaches to the count of one, Stiles takes in a deep breath and decides that this is his fate: he’s the only human in Scott’s pack, so maybe he was meant to die an un-supernatural death all along. Not from being attacked by a werewolf or having been possessed by an evil spirit; oh no, _those_ he’d survived. Those had done nothing to harm him physically.

But being held at gunpoint in one of the only places in the high school where nobody would ever think to look? Yeah, this is where Stiles’ life hangs on a loose thread.

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes so heavily that he’s surprised his lungs are still managing, and just about comes to a notion that maybe the gun is trembling as hard as _he_ is when he finally hears it go off. It’s loud and the shot rings in his ears long enough for any kind of sound to be numbed out, including the sound of his own heartbeat, and for a fleeting moment he’s expecting his knees to crash, but that's when his first realisation hits: he’s not dead, _he’s not dead_.

His eyelids fly open to see—through the blood that’d splattered across his face—Lydia standing in the entrance, as white as sheet and probably not looking any much worse that he already is. The gun she’s holding looks an awful lot like his dad’s, and so many thoughts are flying over his head that he honestly doesn’t want to know what had happened out there or how Lydia freaking Martin got hold of the sheriff’s gun. She’s shaking so much that he wonders how the _hell_ she’d even managed to get a perfect aim.

“Oh god!” she cries, dropping the weapon to the floor, as if she’d just realised what she’d done. She’s completely staggered, even swaying a little, and she closes her eyes as if ready to succumb to the cold hardness of the floor.

“Lydia.” Stiles sprints towards her and clasps his hands around her wrists. “Lydia, hey, it’s okay. He was going to… I would’ve been…”

She gives a slow nod, and with a last glance at the… the _body_ , she opens her eyes again and stares at Stiles’ blood-streaked face in complete and utter horror. She’d just shot a person. A living, breathing, human being. No—no, that doesn’t sound right. She’d just shot an _assassin_. Yeah. She’d shot a murderer; a killer that would’ve gone out and wiped out half of what was left of Beacon Hills’ population.

She’d shot someone who, if she had had arrived a second later, would’ve been responsible for the death of Stiles Stilinski. The thought makes her shudder, and almost a full minute goes by before she finally remembers why she’d been so hastily rushing down here. Mrs McCall’s words of a cure, an antidote—hope, Lydia would like to believe.

“Mushrooms,” she mumbles at first; because her lips are still numb and the ringing just won’t stop. “Reishi mushrooms. The vault. They’re in the vault.”

Stiles looks at her intently, studying her face; searching for any sign of doubt even though he knows there wouldn't be any. Then he nods as if he understood exactly what her two-syllable words mean, slides his hand lower down her wrist so he’s gripping at her fingers instead, and starts leading her towards the vault.

Lydia is still in so much shock at the fact that she’d just outright killed someone, still so unyielding to the fact that she actually did, that she’s suddenly overcome with the irrational fear that the assassin is going to wake up again, find the sheriff’s gun that she’d so carelessly dropped, and come and kill them both before they can make it to the vault.

She glances up at Stiles, whose face is hard and expressionless, and wonders how he can manage to keep his composure so well and if he’s even struggling at all. Lydia stops walking, says, “Wait” and Stiles finally turns around to face her. He’s perfectly calm; not a hint of anxiety on his face, but Lydia can tell that his mind is full with Scott and Kira and Malia, so before he starts with a panic attack, she stands her ground and looks earnestly into his eyes and blurts, “You okay?”

He nods and gives a small inkling of a smile that nobody—much less Lydia—has had the opportunity to see in such a long time. She expects him to start walking again but he continues to look at her before asking, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies, but she’s not. She’s really, _really_ not. “Yeah, but I think—I think I might have a panic attack.”

“Lydia,” he says seriously, his eyes widening with concern, but the corner of his mouth is still slightly upturned. He even goes as far as to let out a soft laugh. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.” Lydia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, focuses on how warm and gentle his hand is around her fingers. “I just need a minute.”

“Take your time,” Stiles says, but they both know that time is out of the question—at least, for their friends. “It’s okay.”

She hears it then, or rather, sees: Scott careening himself towards the entrance of the vault, Kira writhing in agony on the floor and Malia, shivering with so much fear that Lydia feels the hair on her own body stand.

“We have to go,” she tells Stiles, “we have to go _now_.”

* * *

They make it just in time. Stiles, pounding on the wall of the vault until his hands turn sore and Lydia screaming for them until her voice is nonexistent, but all they can do is wait. Even with the combined skills of brains and banshee, they still only possess human strength—not enough to bring down a wall holding in a werewolf, a werecoyote and a kitsune.

“Do you hear anything?” Stiles asks, and when he turns to look at Lydia, she’s already closing her eyes in a way that doesn’t tell him she’s angry or frustrated—she’s concentrating.

“Yeah,” she tells him, and sighs—in relief. “They’re going to be fine.”

“Thank god.” He notices Lydia staring into space with an expression so empty, just as she had before she dropped the gun earlier, that he doesn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her close so her head is sprawled on his chest. “Hey, Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” Stiles murmurs into her hair, and she’s trying so hard not to cry—she’d cried for Allison, for Meredith; she’d been crying so easily nowadays but she really, _really_ doesn’t want to cry for this—so she chews on the inside of her cheek instead. “You always have been. I would know. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?”

She wants to remind him that she’s never let anyone tell her otherwise; that lately, the only person who has been convincing her that she isn’t, is really herself.

She wants to tell him about everything that’s been making her cry so effortlessly for the past two months, but she decides to keep all that for later, and instead she settles for, “I won’t.”


End file.
